


the bargain must be made

by Muir_Wolf



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-08
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-13 19:01:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muir_Wolf/pseuds/Muir_Wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The trees remember. The last stand of the Entwives, the last march of the Ents—the stories are inscribed in their seeds, passed tree to tree in the whisper of leaves in the wind.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Written for the Reverse Mix (comment edition) on dreamwidth, and based on ishie's fic (below) which I <i>adore.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	the bargain must be made

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Reed She Bent](https://archiveofourown.org/works/306728) by [ishie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishie/pseuds/ishie). 



The trees remember. The last stand of the Entwives, the last march of the Ents—the stories are inscribed in their seeds, passed tree to tree in the whisper of leaves in the wind.

In the oldest forests, where the trees run thick and their roots deep, the Old ones remember. They slumber in the sunlight, but when roused they'll speak of Wand-limb, the Slender-birch, and Bramble-seed, too, and River-pine and Golden-field. Brides of the earth, mothers to the saplings in their care, they sang to the trees until they woke, they bid them flee on the winds.

The trees have no care-takers; they've had no one to look after them since the Third Age, and the world has changed since then. They have learned to take care of themselves. They spread the secrets they've handed down from leaf to acorn; they remember the words of the Wives and they remember that they were once loved enough to be sacrificed for. The trees have their own stories, sung in the sway of their branches.

_Bend in the wind, so you do not break._

_Grow your roots deep in the soil._

_Reach your branches tall towards the sunlight._

The trees are old. Even the young trees are old, they age in the light and the earth, in the history they fold inside their bark. The trees read their prophecies in the winds, in the soil against their roots and the steadiness of the mountains. They remember the Wizards, and the cost of them. They remember the Halflings, and their courage. They remember Man, and the White Tree that awoke from slumber. They remember the tides of history, the push and pull of it. 

The Wizards have left these shores, and the Halflings have vanished into the hills. The White Tree blossoms no more, and the vines lie twisted on stone. They can read the portents in the water and the taste of the air. Iron and fire and brick and stone, and the cities encroach, and the forests dwindle. There is no one to stand in their place.

The trees survive as they always have: by bending in the winds, by bending in the storm.

 _Brides of the earth,_ they sing, for they have learned of sacrifice, too, and they have children of their own to tend.

  



End file.
